


a paranoid man

by LyraLV



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Underfell Sans (Undertale), kustard - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 11:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20007910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraLV/pseuds/LyraLV
Summary: Red continues to offer comfort in the best way he knows how.





	a paranoid man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/gifts).
  * Inspired by [every me and every you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227427) by [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance). 



> Non-canon ATTL inspired gift fic for nilchance. Set on the same night that Papyrus visits Undyne in chapter 16 of 'every me and every you.'
> 
> Warnings in end notes

The crickets are chirping in a Hallmark channel-worthy setting, the night soft around the edges as it finds Sans sitting on the back steps of his house. The cigarette hangs loosely between his fingers. It’s nearing sweater weather, a swift September breeze ruffling the fur of Red’s coat as it tickles Sans’s neck. He really should sneak into their house someday while Red’s out and figure out the fate of his jacket. Sans has a strong suspicion the thing would’ve been long since washed were it not for the goopy black evidence left behind and Red’s sharp possessiveness that sets him on a dogged path at times. 

Sans smirks. Red is like a collared hound without a leash. Dangerous concept and not always the best decision to put to practice, but damned if that fucker doesn’t put his soul into the precious few people he cares about.

(The thought still makes Sans squirm on occasion, but he’s come to accept Red’s shark-toothed protection. It makes his soul feel warm, much like the way Edge’s gentle touches and longing glances do.)

On any other night, Sans might be up for a little introspection. Helps to keep hold of what fragile sanity (control) he has. 

The cigarette smolders in his grip. 

It’s been over a year since they reached the surface. A year of peace, no rock ceiling overhead, no resets. Happiness couldn’t find a luckier man. Except it doesn’t settle in Sans’s soul at all, not even as he sits with the stars presumably above him, blanketed by the light pollution that strips the sky of its natural beauty. Happiness finds Sans sitting on his porch steps, smoking a cigarette and waiting for the world to flip upside down and realize that it’s afforded him too long of a good run.

Is he greedy? Has there just been too many good things in Sans’s life that the good are starting to catch up with the bad and even the ratio? Sans shouldn’t feel empty with all the luck life has allotted him recently, but as it turns out, he’s proven once again that nothing really ever counts when he can’t even manage to stop being a basket case. 

Heh. Red was right. Hello depression, thou art a bitch. 

Sans flicks his cigarette away. It lands on the damp concrete, wet from a day’s worth of rain that only just rolled away once evening hit. Yet another reason Sans’s brain is in the dumps. Who would’ve thought that weather can contribute to a person’s melancholy? Sans can believe it. He went from life-threatening lava to playful snow, and both managed to keep his depression running full-time. Guess it all has to do with the people he shared the same space with to develop a certain association tied to a particular geographical phenomenon.

Sans has gotten pretty good at not thinking about things. He pushes memories of Gaster back into the recesses of his mind where it won’t bother him anymore than the usual. 

At the bottom of the stairs, the burnt orange of his abandoned cigarette struggles to remain alight. Between one moment and the next, it’s snuffed out, entirely vanished from sight due to the untied boot standing over top of it.

Sans sighs and keeps his gaze fixed on the ground. He doesn’t have the energy for this. Unfortunately for him, Red does, and the silence between them extends with a newfound expectancy. Sans should’ve grabbed a bottle before shuffling out here. There was just the slightest inkling that his solitude might be disturbed.

(Call it what it is. A pity party.)

His brain is dumb, so he ignores it. So what if he had the suspicion Red would show up? It’s not like his typical depressive episode is anything remarkable. Maybe he wanted some company. Maybe he wanted to stew in silence. How could he have known either way? Maybe he was just seeking attention like an annoying child.

Maybe his damn brain should shut up.

It’s not a conscious decision for his breath to whistle through his teeth like the hiss of a cat. Sans sorely wishes for another cigarette, but he already smoked through the last of his pack, and it’d just take too much energy to go to the store and buy another pack. Sans doesn’t think he has the mental bandwidth to manage a safe trip to the gas station just beyond the neighborhood. He can’t even summon the energy to peel himself off of these stairs and file back into the dark house.

Almost all of the lights are off inside. Papyrus is out spending a rare night with Undyne that has been sorely needed. He doesn’t hang out with his friends nearly as much as he should, and Sans is glad that his bro is finally putting himself first instead of Sans’s sorry ass. Sans is just glad to be off the pedestal for once. He doesn’t know what his brother sees in him most days that enables him to care so much. 

Other than the fact that they’re all the family they have. Or at least had for a long time. And the childhood trauma they shared isn’t really a connection that can be understood elsewhere. No one else went through what they did. No one else was _there_. For the longest time, it was just him and Papyrus, and the world felt like such a small and frightful place, confined to a solitary bed between the two of them with only whispers of conversation.

The shudder wracks Sans out of his thoughts. For once, he’s grateful for the aching side effects that come with a broken soul. 

Red is still there.

He’s an unobtrusive presence, standing at the foot of the steps. He is comfort and restful nights and safety, and Sans almost shakes apart at the weight of it all. Luck and happiness are supposed to go frolicking together, right? Why does he feel like the world is going to open beneath his feet if he so much as becomes hopeful?

It’s a chilly night. Sans should head indoors like any other sane person. He looks up and meets the heaviness of Red’s eyelights trained on him.

There’s no pity. Nothing that will make Sans feel embarrassed come tomorrow morning. Red stares at him and sees Sans to his marrow. Being stripped bare is an unnatural sensation, a dissection while Sans is still alive on the table.

Fuck, he needs a distraction. His mind is eating itself alive.

Red weighs the state of Sans’s messed up head and seems to come to a decision. He shuffles forward, the noise unnervingly loud in the midst of the crickets’s chorus, his stupid shoelaces slapping against the ground as he joins Sans on the steps. His fingers push up the sleeve of Sans’s jacket and curl firmly around his wrist, the wrist that houses the collar. Red’s thumb smoothes against the leather, and Sans feels Edge like a heartbeat, present and _there_. The collar responds to Red’s touch like an affectionate resonance, and the feeling travels through Sans’s bones and melts into his soul. He releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Got something you might like.” Red’s voice pierces the dark and scatters away the traces of chattering thoughts in Sans’s head. He latches on to that familiarity like a lifeline.

“Yeah?” He asks. His voice doesn’t sound like his own.

Red hums. “Yep,” he says. After a few long seconds, it becomes clear that he isn’t planning on following up with that unhelpful tidbit. Sans sighs, and he shoves down the tiny smile that tries to worm up his face.

He doesn’t try to hide his tired exasperation though. Red brings out an entirely new form of tiredness in Sans. 

“What is it?” 

Red shifts so that Sans can appreciate the full view of his wide, wide grin. He winks at Sans.

“My dick.”

The snort escapes Sans without his consent, and his chest feels flighty with the unexpectedness of Red’s answer. Honestly, he should know better by this point. It’s what he gets for letting his guard down around Red. Red, who can just as easily see past his defenses.

Sans feels his grin waver.

“Papyrus out?” Red asks as if he doesn’t know the answer to that question. Sans decides to pretend along with him.

“Yeah.”

Red nods and then tips his head in the direction of the house. “Got a cab waiting out front.”

“Amazing how you’re already prepared beforehand. It’s almost as if you knew where Paps is.”

“Yep,” Red says, pointedly not refuting the claim. His thumb is still rubbing Sans’s collar. “Boss’s already waiting up for us, though I told him not to hold his breath.”

Red is such a motherfucker. He knows exactly what to say to trip Sans’s guilt, and he doesn’t even have the decency to be ashamed about his blatant nature. Like a regular 1920s mobster. Sans rubs his free hand down his face and sighs. He knows when Red’s won. Red knows it too, but he’s trying to be decent in acting like Sans won’t follow him around like a little lost puppy. 

(But Red is the one who came after him as if he wanted to check on Sans and make sure he was all right. The thought spreads a quietness through Sans like nothing else. He can feel his thoughts dimming to just the here and now, Red’s touch on his wrist and collar gentle but meaningful. Longing.)

Sans tips his head back. Breathes in the night air. He says, “Yeah. Ok.” The world doesn’t end.

Red helpfully tugs him to his feet, and after locking up the house, they make their way to the cab that is shockingly still waiting along the curb. Sans piles in the back with Red, who keeps a proprietary hand around his wrist, still sending echoes through the collar that are just as heavy as a promise. It suggests a new presence, one that will fit in as rightly alongside Edge’s. The feeling pushes a comfortable peace into the blissful quiet of Sans’s mind.

He settles in for the ride home.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Sans struggles with his depression more so than usual; references to Sans and Papyrus's trauma courtesy of Gaster


End file.
